


Like Fire to Stone

by Ereini0n



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Canon Era, Carpe Diem, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-21
Updated: 2014-01-21
Packaged: 2018-01-09 12:46:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1146164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ereini0n/pseuds/Ereini0n
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Bahorel attend a meeting with potential allies. On their way back, they are followed by the police. Things get... interesting quickly.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>"They are both men. They make that work to their adavantage."</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	Like Fire to Stone

They’ve been pressed together in that doorway for an hour by the time the cops leave. At least, that’s what it feels like. Probably no more than five minutes. He’ll let his watch take care of that. What he wants to take care of is the man his body is pressing against the door.  
”Nothing to worry about. Something about being in danger, I’ll bet. Gets the blood flowing.”  
”Downwards, it seems.” Enjolras shakes his head, as if to clear it. It’s a tiny movement, tight and controlled.  
”I should know”, Bahorel smirks. ”Want to do something about it?” A jest on his part, surely. But… Let the dice fall as they may. ”My rooms are but a stroll away”.  
Enjolras glances at him, then away, his lips… not a smile, no.  
 _”Achol ve shato ki machar namut”._  
Bahorel guesses. It is only fitting. ”Prouvaire?”  
”Prouvaire. _Carpe horas_ , indeed”. This time, a smile.  
It’s the last thing they say.

By the time they reach his rooms, their blood has redistributed itself more equally through their bodies. It makes no difference.  
Bahorel kisses him hard. Enjolras grips his waist harder.  
They are both men. They make that work to their adavantage.

When it’s finished, they lie, breathing quietly. Enjolras has an arm thrown over his eyes. He has never looked more like the ancient marble Grantaire constantly compares him to. Grantaire. They share tales (rather tall, in his friend’s case, Bahorel suspects) of romantic conquests every time they meet. He will have to think of a different topic of conversation at lunch tomorrow.

The utter silence at his side takes him unawares. His knowledge of Enjolras being able to quote Saint-Just in its entirety is as old as their aquintance. Sleep is an idulgence those that would make Revolutions can ill afford. And yet, this has been a day like no other.  
Bahorel gets up. There is a neat pile of white linen rags on his little bedside table. On weekends he uses them to clean his guns. The jug he pours water from would have no place in a fashionable young Parisian’s apartment - a simple clay thing, brightly coloured. Things are going well on the farm, if his mother can spare the time for hobbies.

By the time he turns around, Morpheus has claimed Enjolras in full. He is on his back, completely still, his right arm, fallen from its post as centry over his eyes, dangles over the edge of the bed. A needless pain in the morning.  
Bahorel crouches by his side. The wet linen rag, the one he used on himself, makes short work of his chest and stomach.  
He looks at the hand in front of him. Same one that beat him black and blue in their practice sessions. He knows this hand.  
They had gasped in each other’s mouths. This is nothing. He takes the delicate wrist and guides it to lie on Enjolras’ now-clean stomach.

When the blasted church bells wake him at noon, he is, understandably, alone.

He sees him in the Corinth two days later.  
They’re all having lunch, loud and excited. Things are heating up. With contacts all over town, no one knows it better than him.  
Enjolras is at his table alone, chin on his hands, gazing out of the window. He never partakes in the merry-making. They’ve exchanged greetings upon arrival. C’est tout.

Striding over, he double-taps on the table in lieu of greeting. There’s a smile on his face. Enjolras looks up, straight at him with that clear gaze, and yet… Bahorel thinks, just for a moment, ‘I could have been anyone’.  
The thought comes and passes. The other night, they knew each other. He speaks.  
”Tomorrow night, then?” Casual, friendly.  
Enjolras rises. There’s a smile on his face. It is a small affair, contained and somewhat melancholy. The smile reflects in his eyes. It is the only one he has.  
He is slightly surprised when Enjolras extends his hand. It’s the hand from that night. It is a hand he knows and knows again. He clasps it in his own.  
”Forgive me”.  
Bahorel’s smile grows. He tightens his grip. He has always been a betting man. He would have bet to hear ‘I’m sorry’.

**Author's Note:**

> My first and last fanfiction.
> 
> I had a sentence stuck in my head and the story just naturally built itself around it. Hence the first.  
> I have the imagination of somebody who has absolutely none, which is why I cannot write a plot to save my life. Hence the last.
> 
> Title is inspired by the famous _LOTR_ line: "How can fire undo stone?"
> 
> "Let us eat and drink; for to morrow we shall die.” (Isaiah 22:13)
> 
>  


End file.
